"Reads nothing but his betting-book and Bell's Life."
"Dear me! how tiresome. Who can it be? Wait a moment. Let me see. Is it Major Powell?"
"Guess again. He wouldn't write, save in Indian fashion, with his tomahawk on his enemies' scalps."
"How provoking!" cried Bella, exasperated. "Stop: is it Mr. Beauchamp?"
"No; he scribbles for six-and-eightpences too perseveringly to have time for anything, except ruining his clients."
"Dr. Montressor, then?"
"Try once more. His prescriptions bring him too many guineas for him to waste ink on any other purpose."
"How stupid I am! Perhaps—perhaps—— Yet no, it can't be, because he's at the Cape, and most likely killed, poor fellow. Could it be Cecil Green?"
Falkenstein laughed. "You needn't go so far as Kaffirland; try a little nearer home. Think over the ladies you know."
"The ladies! Then it is a woman!" cried Bella. "Well, I should never have believed it. Who can she be? How I shall admire her, and envy her! A lady! Can it be darling Flora?"